


Articulate

by horizon_greene



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horizon_greene/pseuds/horizon_greene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sidney rolls over again, back to Geno, because while he’s willing to let him into his bed, where it seems like they’ve always communicated the best, he’s not quite sure he’s ready to have this conversation face-to-face. Geno is warm behind him, close but not touching.</p><p>“Are you fucking other people?” Sidney asks quietly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Articulate

**Author's Note:**

> TW: This fic contains a physical altercation between two romantic partners.
> 
> \---
> 
> Many thanks to [sophiahelix](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix) for the beta, and for asking the right questions <3

If Sidney had to make a list of Things Not To Be Late To, “The Olympics” would rank right up there at the top, jockeying for position with other critical life events such as “Game 7, Stanley Cup Final” and “Wedding.” 

It becomes clear after a while that Geno doesn’t share Sidney’s urgency, however, evidenced by the fact that the rest of the Penguins headed to Sochi are huddled in the airport waiting for their chartered flight, and Geno is nowhere to be seen.

When Geno finally shows up, very late and trailed by an NHL Network film crew, only the fact that one of the cameras is instantaneously trained on Sidney’s own face prevents him from rolling his eyes in exasperation.

He schools his features into what he hopes passes for amused incredulity, which is probably more socially acceptable than the long-suffering aggravation he’s actually feeling. He can tell his mouth is gaping open, but there’s only so much Sidney can do. Dealing with Geno’s tendency to ignore the clock is something Sidney hasn’t yet perfected, although he’s worked on it—he _really_ has. They’d had so many awful fights over that very issue in the beginning, and Sidney can’t stomach those same arguments again. 

There’s some good-natured chirping from the other guys, but Sidney just stares at Geno, unblinking. He’s already pretty salty about spending their last night in Pittsburgh apart for the sake of the cameras, and Geno’s tardiness only exacerbates Sidney’s bad mood. Showing up late for an evening of takeout Chinese and sex at Sidney’s house is one thing, but showing up late for the fucking _Olympics_? Sidney is aghast.

Then Geno has the nerve to ask why no one notified him that their plane was also running behind schedule, and it takes all of Sidney’s years of media training to keep his face carefully neutral as his annoyance ratchets up a notch. He forces a smile and attempts a joke about how Geno is typically so late, he was early by his standards, but it mostly falls flat.

They fly to Newark, and then on to Sochi, and Sidney is glad that he and Geno are seated in different rows for the long-haul flight. Sidney settles into his seat, closes his eyes, and begins his mental changeover, thinking of new colors, different teammates, bigger ice.

Eventually, the general weariness of a long NHL season takes over. He hovers right on the edge of consciousness for a while, dipping in and out, still picking up bits and pieces of what’s happening on the plane around him.

He hears Geno’s voice somewhere behind him, at the periphery of his senses. Then he slips a little deeper and dreams. 

\---

The night Russia loses to Finland, Sidney sits on his bed in the Village with his heart in his throat and his phone in his hand. He doesn’t know what to say—what would help—and he spends a long time trying to untangle the complicated emotions in his head.

In the end, he types a simple message and hits send. 

_Sorry, G._

He stays up later than he should, waiting, wanting to be ready in case he gets a return text or phone call from Geno.

Geno doesn’t respond.

\---

Winning the gold medal in Vancouver has been the highlight of Sidney’s life to this point. He worries, sometimes, that nothing will ever compare to it—the overtime golden goal on home ice, the shockingly intense pride as his teammates crowded him against the boards, the euphoric joy inside Canada Hockey Place echoing throughout the entire country beyond the arena’s walls.

While Sidney is reluctant to admit it out loud, even the Stanley Cup victory doesn’t measure up, because they’d won that in Detroit, in front of a sullen, unimpressed crowd, hundreds of miles away from most of their fans. And it had been _fucking amazing_ , and Sidney would do it a million times over if he could, but still.

Winning the gold medal in Sochi is—well. It’s a little different this time, more of a relieved satisfaction than anything else, the weight of captaining the team heavy on his shoulders, but Sidney’s not going to knock it. Everywhere he turns, there’s someone else to embrace, and Sidney happily lets himself be passed from teammate to teammate. By the time they’re wrapping up the obligatory photos, medals around their necks and goalies sprawled across the ice, Sidney’s jaw aches to the bone from smiling.

\---

When the Penguins regroup after the Olympic break, Geno is quiet and slow to smile, and he’s playing like shit. Sidney isn’t all that surprised, given what Geno’s just been through.

Geno’s also completely blowing Sidney off, though, and that _does_ catch him off guard. He doesn’t pick up when Sidney calls, and he only replies to a fraction of his texts. After a few days, Sidney realizes that if he’s going to communicate with Geno, he’ll have to do it in person. But each casual, carefully measured invitation that Sidney extends to Geno in the locker room is declined, equally casually.

The rejection stings, but Sidney thinks he understands. He knows the pressure Geno was under—knows it very, very well—and he remembers how he felt in Vancouver, tries to imagine the exact inversion of that emotion. It hurts in a way that makes it hard to breathe.

The days pass with no discernible improvement, and Sidney grows increasingly frustrated. He’s pretty sure there’s something he could say to make this easier, but he doesn’t know what that is. He and Geno have always relied so much on non-verbal cues; now it’s hard to find the additional words that might help.

\---

They have sex again, eventually, when Sidney decides that asking has run its course and simply follows Geno back to his hotel room after a loss in San Jose. 

It’s late, but Sidney is determined, and Geno seems to understand what this is about. They strip, separately, and Geno kisses Sidney exactly once, hard and quick, at the foot of the bed. Then he urges Sidney up onto the mattress, grabbing lube out of his bag and following behind him.

Geno pushes Sidney onto his elbows and knees without preamble—no making out, no foreplay, just a couple of slick fingers inside him to ease the way before he slides in.

The sound of Geno’s hips slapping against Sidney’s ass is loud in the quiet room. Ordinarily, Sidney wouldn’t even notice it, too focused on whatever he and Geno are doing to each other, the other sounds they’re making. But neither of them is making much noise, and the impersonal, almost clinical way Geno is fucking him leaves Sidney feeling off-balance and unsure.

“Geno,” he breathes, putting a little extra arch in his back, rocking into Geno and trying to influence the rhythm. Geno isn’t having it, though, and his response is quick and decisive. He grunts his disapproval and grabs the back of Sidney’s neck, pushing his cheek against the sheets.

Sidney likes it rough, likes being manhandled and pushed around a little, but Geno has him practically immobilized, restricting Sidney apart from the small movements he dictates with the hand still firmly gripping Sidney’s hip. It’s not really what he was hoping for, and Sidney thinks about making some sort of token protest. But Geno’s getting in so deep, and the angle is just deadly in this position. Sidney decides the commentary can wait for another time, and his objections die in his throat.

He comes in about two minutes flat, can’t even try to hold back with Geno working him over like that. He shudders, gasping quietly and fisting the sheets, until Geno finishes a few moments later, fucking into Sidney hard.

They lie side by side afterwards, sweaty and silent and a little awkward. The arm that Geno slings around his shoulders seems more out of habit than anything, a perfunctory gesture at best. Sidney can’t relax in the face of that, can’t really deal with how weird and uncomfortable all of this is, and he shifts restlessly until Geno finally sighs and withdraws his arm. Sidney takes that as his cue.

“I’m just gonna go,” he says, pushing himself up and away.

\---

Sidney likes going to bars with the guys, likes the loose camaraderie of it, likes getting just a little drunk.

What he doesn’t like, however, is seeing Geno in a booth in the corner, making out hot and heavy with a girl that Sidney doesn’t recognize.

When they first started, Sidney and Geno had both still picked up girls with some regularity, but the dalliances with other people had gradually tapered off as their own relationship coalesced into something structured and identifiable. First they stopped actually bringing girls home at the end of the night, then they stopped making out with girls in bars, then they stopped actively flirting with girls at all. Then, Sidney and Geno stopped using condoms, and—well. They hadn’t necessarily talked about it, but Sidney had just _assumed_ , based on the evidence, that it all meant something very specific.

So, either Sidney has completely misread the signs, or Geno’s an asshole and Sidney should have recognized it sooner. But either way, there’s Geno, with someone else, and Sidney flushes hot with betrayal, his chest tight.

The girl’s mouth dips down to Geno’s neck, and at that moment Geno looks up and meets Sidney’s eyes. Geno’s expression is unwavering and not exactly apologetic, somehow both turned on and defiant, and Sidney wants to punch him in the face.

He’s not going to make a scene, though. Not here, not in public, not in front of their teammates.

Geno says something in the girl’s ear and starts to stand up. Sidney isn’t sure if Geno intends to approach _him_ , or leave with _her_ , but he shakes his head at the prospect of either scenario. He sets his drink down and grabs his coat, shouldering his way through the crowd without saying goodbye.

Outside, the cold sucks the extra heat out of his skin, and Sidney doesn’t bother to pull on his coat as he waits for a cab.

When he gets home, Sidney makes a concerted effort to calm down. He braces his hands on the kitchen island and leans on it, head bowed, taking a series of deep, measured breaths as he stares down into the glass of water he’s poured for himself. There’s a game tomorrow. He needs to be ready. He tries to think about that, and not about Geno.

Sidney’s shoulders tighten when he hears a key in the lock, followed by the sound of his front door opening and closing. His temper flares, because there is exactly one person who’d be letting himself into Sidney’s house like this.

“The fuck was that, Geno?” Sidney dives in as soon as Geno enters the room, skipping the pleasantries. “You wanna be with girls again? That girl? Bring her home and shove her face in a pillow and fuck her, too?” He’s furious just speaking the words out loud, and his voice rises along with his emotions.

Geno glares at him, making his way through the kitchen to stand very close to Sidney. “Maybe. What if I do?” And Sidney’s pretty sure Geno’s just being a dick right now, but he needs to check.

“What’s the matter with you?” Sidney asks, eyes narrowing. “Are you mad at me?” He takes a quick mental inventory of their relationship, trying to identify where he might have gone wrong, what he could have done to deserve this type of behavior from Geno. He comes up empty. Except—

“Are you mad at me for winning the gold medal?” he asks incredulously. Geno flinches, and Sidney knows he’s struck a nerve. He presses the advantage, cruel and ruthless. “Are you pissed because you couldn’t get it done, and my team did?”

It’s a low blow, and Geno’s expression darkens. “Sidney,” he warns.

“No,” Sidney snaps. “You don’t—you don’t get to be mad at me about that.”

“I’m not mad about gold medal!” Geno shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I need break from fucking hockey, need break from you.”

Sidney recoils, stung. “Fuck you,” he finally mutters.

“Fuck _you_ , Sid,” Geno echoes, and then says something else in Russian, his tone sharp and derisive.

And just—fuck that, fuck Geno for insulting him in a language Sidney can’t even understand. He lashes out, pushing Geno hard enough that Geno stumbles backward a step. He recovers quickly, and then he gives as good as he gets, shoving Sidney in the chest, banging his hip against the countertop.

They go at it right there in the kitchen. Sidney has the superior leverage, Geno the longer reach. It’s oddly reminiscent of a hockey scrum, hands twisting in each other’s shirts, grappling for position and landing glancing blows. It’s awkward and inefficient, hard to do any real damage to each other, but then Geno’s fist connects with Sidney’s jaw, and Sidney has had enough. 

He squares up and gives Geno another vicious shove, knocking him into the fridge. A magnet clatters to the kitchen floor, taking the printout of the Penguins’ 2013-2014 schedule with it.

They stare at each other, breathing hard, and Sidney wonders if they’re going to go again. The seconds drag on, and neither of them moves. Then Geno sags, just the tiniest bit, and all the fight goes out of Sidney, too.

Sidney’s eyes flick downwards, and he retrieves the schedule from the floor, slapping it back against the fridge and securing the magnet on top of it. He does a haphazard job, the paper skewed at an odd angle and the magnet obscuring most of the month of April. He’ll have to fix that later, when Geno isn’t watching.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and dials the number for his preferred car service, then thrusts the phone at Geno, holding it as far away from his body as he can. “Get a car and go home,” he orders, his voice low and quiet.

Sidney goes upstairs and gets ready for bed, scrubbing hard at his face, brushing his teeth with a little more force than necessary. He’s just sliding between his sheets when he hears Geno leave.

He rolls over and huffs out a breath as the prickly tingle in his jaw and hip blossoms into dull, throbbing pain. He focuses on it, glad for the distraction. That kind of pain is minor, manageable. He’s slept through worse.

\---

Sidney and Geno practice, and play, and speak to the media, and don’t really speak to each other, and the cycle repeats in an endless, almost indistinguishable pattern from one day to the next.

They suffer back-to-back losses against the Flyers on successive afternoons, and that jolts Sidney out of his malaise just enough to make him realize that he has a job to do and a team to lead. He’s more vocal than usual the next day, demanding and encouraging in equal measure during morning skate. The team responds, and it’s a focused, intense practice, the kind that predicts a reversal of fortune. Even Geno seems engaged, listening attentively to Sidney, looking him in the eye.

Sidney’s muscles are hot and loose when he gets home, and he sinks into pleasant tiredness as he strips down to a t-shirt and shorts and climbs into bed for his afternoon nap.

He’s just starting to drift when he hears his front door open and close.

He pushes his face into the pillow and sighs in frustration, preparing for another fight, then rolls over so he’s facing his bedroom door, waiting.

Geno’s face is neutral when he makes his way to Sidney’s room, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Sidney echoes flatly.

“Can we talk?” Geno asks, tentative, and Sidney feels some of his anger dissipate. Geno, at least, has come here and made an effort, which is more than Sidney can say for himself.

They blink at each other for a few moments, until Sidney scoots over in the bed and lifts the covers in invitation. Geno toes off his shoes and climbs in next to him.

Sidney rolls over again, back to Geno, because while he’s willing to let him into his bed, where it seems like they’ve always communicated the best, he’s not quite sure he’s ready to have this conversation face-to-face. Geno is warm behind him, close but not touching.

“Are you fucking other people?” Sidney asks quietly.

Geno lets out a breath. “No.”

Sidney is glad to hear it, but it’s not quite enough. “Do you want to?”

“No!” Geno says fervently, and he shifts closer, laying a hand cautiously on Sidney’s hip. Sidney sighs.

“Then _why_?”

He feels Geno shrug. “I was angry. Angry about what happen at Olympics, how I play.” His thumb strokes just above the waistband of Sidney’s shorts. “Hard, after Olympics. You’re always around, Sid. Always hockey. Wanted to not think about hockey for little while.”

“Oh.” Sidney winces, worrying at his lower lip. He’s always liked that his relationship with Geno is so inextricably linked with hockey. He likes doing the same things, having the same schedule, working together and being together on a consistent basis. He loves knowing that their individual goals and motivations are perfectly aligned. But the constant entanglement can be a real drag when hockey is going wrong. 

“You should—you should tell me stuff like that,” Sidney points out. “I could help, or we could figure out—”

“We never talk about stuff like that,” Geno interrupts, and now Geno’s the one who has a point. Their relationship has definitely not been built on serious, thoughtful conversations.

“Should talk, though,” he continues, giving Sidney’s hip a gentle squeeze. “Need to, sometimes, to understand.”

“Yeah,” Sidney agrees. He covers Geno’s hand with his own.

“I’m not mad at you for win gold medal,” Geno says. “I’m mad at you for be a dick about it later, in kitchen.” He playfully nudges the back of Sidney’s knee with one of his own. “But you deserve to win. You’re good captain.”

“Thanks.” Sidney ducks his head. “I’m sorry. That night—I was a jerk.”

“You had reason. I was jerk, too. Did thing I shouldn’t. Just…snapped, wasn’t thinking.” Geno presses along the length of Sidney’s body, his mouth close to his ear. “Sid, I don’t do that, with other people, since last year playoffs. Don’t even want to. _Won’t_ ,” he emphasizes.

“Good,” Sidney says, and swallows carefully. “Me neither.”

Geno noses into the nape of Sidney’s neck, sighing. They lie there in the quiet, peaceful safety of Sidney’s bed, warm beneath the covers, hot every place their bare skin touches.

They should be napping, but neither one of them is asleep. Sidney gradually becomes aware of Geno’s cock, lightly pressing against his ass. He’s soft, but Sidney knows it wouldn’t take much to change that. His own dick begins to swell just thinking about it, and that spurs Sidney into action. He rolls his hips back against Geno, tugging his hand down to cup him through his shorts.

“Sid,” Geno groans into his hair.

“Geno,” he answers pointedly, and rolls over to face him. His fingers follow the edge of Geno’s jaw, then dip under the sleeve of his t-shirt. Geno tugs him closer with one hand on his ass.

They make out for a long time. There’s no rush, just easy, contented proximity and languid touching, legs tangled together, Geno’s arm heavy where it lays across Sidney’s ribs.

After a while, the low burn between them begins to flare into real heat. Sidney sits up and tugs his shirt over his head, then grabs Geno’s and does the same. He bends for one more kiss, and from there it’s a slow, warm slide down Geno’s body, the sheets gradually bunching around his neck as he goes.

Geno isn’t wearing anything now except for a pair of loose sweatpants. Sidney loops the drawstring around his finger thoughtfully, then grasps the waistband and tugs it down, exposing Geno’s cock.

Geno grabs an extra pillow and props himself up a little more as Sidney shifts and settles between his thighs, then reaches down and pushes the sheets past Sidney’s shoulders, out of the way. Sidney smiles. If Geno wants to watch, Sidney will give him a show.

He plays it up a little for Geno’s benefit, mouthing at the head of Geno’s cock, curling his tongue around it. His hand works the rest with loose, even strokes.

“You do that like you love it,” Geno murmurs.

“I do,” he says, letting the inside of his lower lip drag along Geno’s cock, smooth and wet.

“Show me how much,” Geno urges, hand sliding into Sidney’s hair.

Sidney isn’t a tease. He doesn’t need much encouragement to swallow Geno down, and when his mouth reaches the base, Geno groans appreciatively. Sidney eases back up, until his lips are just barely touching the tip. Then he sucks him down again, and again, and again.

It’s easy to find a comfortable rhythm, to relax into it under Geno’s steady gaze. His thighs flex beneath Sidney’s hands, but he holds himself perfectly still, and his groans are interspersed with muttered, fragmented compliments about Sidney’s pretty, cock-sucking mouth.

Sidney basks in the praise, flushing with a proprietary sense of satisfaction. He wonders, sometimes, how many people have been able to deep-throat Geno’s cock the way Sidney can. He guesses, based on the amazed, reverent way Geno looks at him every time he does it, that there haven’t been that many.

“Sid,” Geno sighs, giving his hair a gentle tug. Sidney moans as Geno pulls him off his cock, but he goes, straddling Geno’s hips and leaning down to kiss him.

Geno’s hands are warm and sure as they dip into the back of Sidney’s shorts, pushing them down and cupping his ass in the same motion. He squeezes, groping Sidney thoroughly, brushing a fingertip across his hole.

Sidney groans and pulls back. “Hang on,” he says, wriggling out of his shorts and reaching over to the nightstand. He kisses Geno again, pressing the lube into his hand.

Geno isn’t a tease, either. He pushes in one slick finger, then two, and just goes for it. He likes to change things up, alternating between fucking Sidney deep with two fingers and stretching him wide with three, and then four. Sidney’s own fingers twist in Geno’s hair.

“Oh god,” Sidney mumbles, the words faint against Geno’s lips. He arches into the touch, head tipping back. Sidney’s cock leaks between them in slow, toe-curling pulses, and when Sidney looks down, Geno is watching him with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. Sidney moans and bends forward again, licking back into his mouth.

They kiss, messy and wet, as Geno fingers him, and fingers him, and fingers him. 

“I’m gonna come,” he warns finally, grabbing Geno’s arm. He makes a pained noise as Geno withdraws his fingers.

Geno rolls them until Sidney’s on his back. “Will get you there again,” he promises, kissing his way down Sidney’s neck, to the hollow of his throat.

Geno’s sweatpants are still halfway down his thighs. They stop long enough for Geno to tug them off the rest of the way and find the lube in the tangle of sheets. 

“Let me,” Sidney says softly, and he strokes Geno’s cock, fist tight and slick, before they both shift into position.

It becomes apparent the moment Geno starts to fuck him that Sidney isn’t going to last long. It’s so good, slippery and hot and almost deliriously slow, but Sidney is so far gone already that he doesn’t need much pace to get him there. 

“Geno, I’m…” 

“…close?” Geno supplies, grinning slyly. 

Sidney nods, then moans as Geno nudges his legs a little wider, settling deeper between them. Sidney arches helplessly into the next thrust and lets his eyes fall shut when Geno leans down to kiss him.

Geno’s tongue pushing into Sidney’s mouth is what tips Sidney over the edge. He comes hard, groaning into the kiss and making a mess between them, tucking his face into Geno’s neck at the end.

Geno is still going, and Sidney rides it out as long as he can, until he’s shaking and too oversensitive to take much more. He grabs Geno’s hips, squeezing.

“Hang on,” he pants. “Just—give me a minute.”

Geno obediently slows to a stop, pressing deep inside. They’re both breathing hard, and Sidney can feel the tension in Geno’s body, the effort it’s taking to hold himself still.

Geno pulls back a little, easing a hand between them to cradle Sidney’s balls, then dipping lower. 

“Okay?” Geno asks, fingers gently stroking the hot, slick skin where Sidney is stretched tight around his cock.

Sidney shivers. “Okay.”

Geno kisses him and keeps his hand where it is, keeping the touches light and strictly on the outside, letting Sidney gradually come down. After a couple of minutes, Sidney sighs and presses their foreheads together.

“Okay,” he says again, giving Geno a little nudge.

Geno starts moving his hips, quicker than before, a specific urgency to it. He rubs along Sidney’s hole with purpose, slipping a fingertip inside.

Sidney tightens up reflexively, and they both moan as Geno pushes his finger deeper. Sidney likes being stretched like this, and it feels good, even though he’s soft and isn’t going to come again. Geno, though, is completely undone by it, fucking Sidney a little desperately, hard enough that they’ll both be sore later.

Geno’s finger slides free as he reaches for Sidney’s hips, positioning him just so and holding him there as he comes with a few last rough, uneven thrusts.

“Sid,” Geno sighs eventually, low and satisfied. They’ve shifted fractionally, settling into a more comfortable position but sticking together. Geno nuzzles Sidney’s ear, and then the soft, sensitive skin below it.

Sidney loops his arms around Geno’s neck, teetering on the edge of the emotion welling up inside him, demanding expression. Maybe it’s too much, because a lot has already been said today, but in Sidney’s mind, it makes perfect sense to build on the successes of the past hour.

He cups the back of Geno’s head and brings his mouth close to Geno’s ear.

“I love you,” he says, softly but clearly.

Geno exhales, and Sidney shivers, nervous. But when Geno looks down at Sidney, his expression is amused and fond, and the kiss he presses to Sidney’s mouth is gentle.

“I love you, too,” he says into the small space between them, before kissing Sidney again.

\---

Geno has a two-goal, four-point night a few days later against the Lightning, the type of game that fires up the entire team. 

The press clusters around Geno in the locker room afterwards, and Sidney enjoys a brief respite before they begin trickling inevitably over to Sidney’s stall in ever-greater numbers.

Sidney answers their questions, one by one, and it’s nothing new, nothing that requires much thought or concentration. Until—

“Sid, can you tell us about the talk you had with Geno?”

Sidney fumbles a little, startled, and the reporter must mistake his unease for confusion, because he elaborates without further prompting.

Sidney listens intently, snatching up every available bit of context. Evidently, Geno is crediting the improvement in his play to a conversation he had with Sidney about his post-Olympic struggles. That’s not exactly the whole truth, but it’s close, and Sidney picks up on the thread easily enough.

He formulates an answer that doesn’t sound too bad, talking about pressure and expectations and being there for his teammates. Then another reporter asks about Geno’s performance that night, and the praise comes easily.

“He was flying, just dominated the whole night.” Sidney says, and he can tell he’s smiling a little too much and tries to rein that in. “Had the puck the entire night, drew two or three penalties, at least. He was on fire.” 

It’s pretty standard hockey jargon, nothing that Sidney hasn’t said in some combination about other teammates at one point or another. But the little sigh that Sidney heaves at the end is unusual, and if it seems a little more breathless and lovestruck than the answer warrants, well.

He’s always said more with actions than words.


End file.
